<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Box on the Wall by VinegarWaffles</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585098">Box on the Wall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinegarWaffles/pseuds/VinegarWaffles'>VinegarWaffles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:54:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinegarWaffles/pseuds/VinegarWaffles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>another fanmade statement, this time with skin-wife nikola ;)<br/>Statement of Todd Richardson, regarding the box on his wall.</p><p>[CONTENT WARNINGS: In depth descriptions of The Stranger, and The Spiral. Mannequins, Clowns, Descriptions of skin, Puppets, Implied animal death]</p><p>credit to Rusty Quill and Jonathan Sims for making tma.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Box on the Wall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/738651">The Magnus Archives</a> by Jonathan Sims, Rusty Quill.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]</p><p>[JON:]<br/>Statement of Todd Richardson, regarding the box on his wall. Statement given February 19th 2001, committed to tape September 16th 2018. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins…</p><p>[JON, IN STATEMENT:]<br/>The night was still, much like all nights in this dull town I seem to always call home. The wind whistled and sighed like someone you knew, that was just outside your comprehension. That’s when I first heard the slight jingle of the bells from within the box on the wall. I’m sorry I’m getting ahead of myself; I suppose I should describe my flat…and the box. I live in an apartment near central Dartford, so the commute here wasn’t much of a problem, I guess. Um right my flat…it’s rather small, the kitchen and lounge are separated by a half wall and the only proper rooms are my own and the bathroom. I used to share the flat with my partners but they um…decided they wanted to live elsewhere. I can’t blame them for leaving, I was a real dick you know, always getting upset at the smallest things that weren’t significant in the slightest. When they left, I was distressed, so distressed I instantly tried to replace them…I adopted a cat. I named her “Trixie” after the candy bar…I wish I had gotten to spend more time with her. She was a rather large tabby cat with grey and black fur. I got her when she was just a kitten, and raised her pretty well, I’d say. Then I eventually got another job, I lost my last one for uh…destructive behavior. </p><p>It was a pretty good job, paid well, it carried me along very well for the next three years. A small thrift store on the corner just a couple of lots down. It was nice, business wasn’t much but I always got my paycheck in full and on time so I never asked questions, called “Thrifts and Gifts”. The people who came to the shop always picked out items seemingly at random, I worked checkout along with organizing our stock. They always had a smile on their face that stretched longer than it should have? Every day one or two people would walk in and spend fifteen minutes and twelve seconds picking out items, I…I counted, then come to me asking to be checked out. The worst part is they always asked the same questions. “What a handsome young man, how old are you?” I answer “How long have you worked here?” I answer “How is Trixie?” I would ask how they knew about her…they would take their things and leave. I think it took about a month of working there to realize I didn’t actually need to answer at all. It was like every customer was set on a timer, they would just keep that strange large smile on their faces and stare at me. Their expressions didn’t change if I answered or not, so eventually I just took their money and pointed towards the door. In retrospect I’m surprised I didn’t quit or even get frightened, I just accepted that my job was to check out these things that definitely were not human…like I said I didn’t ask questions, and I got my paycheck on time. </p><p>I believe in the time I worked there I only saw my manager or other employees when I worked overtime, very late into the night. They looked more human than the customers but they still weren’t all the way there… if that makes sense. They wore the uniform so I kept to myself. I only spoke to my manager twice, well, three times if you counted when I quit. The first time was the interview, to say it was off-putting would be an understatement. Her name was Nikola Orsinov, though she didn’t sound Russian at all, it must’ve been a family name or something along those lines. Her eyes were empty, like they were looking straight through me, her skin glinted off the reflection of the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. I told her my name and gingerly set my resume on her desk. She never looked at it, she just stared at me and asked me if I was afraid. I told her of course I wasn’t, I was excited to be working at her establishment. She told me excitement and terror are often confused. I remember we sat there in silence for around an hour longer, her eyes never moving, never blinking, she studied me. I couldn’t bring myself to speak, how could I? You could imagine my surprise when she suddenly raised a hand and placed it on my left cheek. Her hand was hard and cold, skin has a very distinct texture, yet hers was completely smooth. That’s when she told me I was perfect for the job, and she directed me to the employee’s lounge. I stood there alone for a minute or so before I found my locker tucked away on the back-wall, I had to fetch a stool to reach it. Inside was my uniform and a nametag that didn’t read my name… it didn’t have any text on it at all. I found myself affixing it to my uniform’s shirt without defiance, when I was there I had no name, I was no one. The second time was much shorter of an interaction, she told me my Christmas bonus could be collected, and said she knew the perfect people to deliver it to me. I nodded, and went back to work. </p><p>I always walked home; I lost my license at my last job. I just packed my bag, or picked it up, I never brought much that needed unpacking. I remember once I brought Trixie with me, that was a good day… but that’s beside the point. The last day I went home was before my scheduled break, I took it every year, a week off near Christmas to visit my mates in Manchester. I was walking and got this intense feeling of being followed, so I looked behind me to see a non-descript delivery van coming down the street. It followed me to my flat, and sure enough the moment I stepped inside my door I heard the two men clearing their throats. They were massive, much taller than I’ve seen before, and looked very much alike. They spoke with cockney accents that I thought was a mockery of my own. “Is this the Richardson residence?” The one on the right spoke, “Yes, I am he, I haven’t ordered anything though” they chuckled to themselves for a moment before pushing past me into my flat, the one that was on the left simply said “they never do” I shuddered at that. I shut the door and went to my bedroom, bringing Trixie with me. Whatever they were doing, I remember thinking they could’ve done it quieter. There was drills, hammers, I heard an electric screwdriver at one point. When I turned my tele down every once and a while I could hear them curse and complain about how they weren’t handymen, and they didn’t know what they were doing. One that came up a lot was “Does this go here?” “Why not” followed by their chuckles that were more wrong the longer they lasted. This carried on late into the night.</p><p>Eventually I fell asleep, and woke up the next morning, Saturday, and was pleased to hear they weren’t working on the installment anymore. I got up and left my room to see a large black box on the wall near the door. It seemed to be wood, but otherwise completely bland. It looked like it might’ve supposed to be able to open, but assembly definitely made that impossible. The most curious thing though, was the small rope that came from the bottom of the box. It didn’t reach down far, but it seemed Trixie could be able to play with it, so I assumed that’s what it was for. On the top of the box was a small business card for a delivery company called “Breekon and Hope” which I assume was who the delivery men worked for; the other card was from Nikola. It read “Merry Christmas :) enjoy your bonus” reading it sent a shiver down my spine. I was dragged out of my thoughts quickly when I heard a light jingle coming from within the box, and immediately I saw Trixie playing with the rope. It seemed to be a pull-string of sorts, just what I needed on my relaxing break, a noise-machine. I figured it wasn’t much to fret over, as I was leaving for Manchester the next day. I just made tea and spent my day lounging around, catching up on the newest shows and reading the book. I found the book at the store too you know, weird thing, the title was scuffed and barely legible. I think it said “Ny Hud” it’s all in Swedish so it is hard to translate all of it but I’ve made it a little project of mine. It used to be in some sort of library, a fancy one at that, it had this whole metal plate on the inside of the leather cover. It reads “From the Library of Jürgen Leitner” in blatant English, which is a strange change of pace from the rest of the book. I guess I shouldn’t question old men’s past decisions, especially the stupidest ones like what books go in your library. </p><p>Throughout the day I heard Trixie playing with her new toy, I found it cute at the start, but quickly got annoyed at the almost constant ring of the bells. I set down the book and went to check it out, what I saw I can never explain. The door was ajar, and a small trail of her hair went out and down the hall. She had never been the type to run away so I instantly panicked and followed the trail of hair, it went to a halt in front of the stairwell…but that’s where the trail ended. I hoped she would return when I usually gave her dinner…she did not. I waited all for hours and nothing, just the crushing silence of my tears hitting the wooded floors. I eventually went back to my room and tried to sleep, maybe she’d come back in the morning? As I laid there, I heard the wind whistling outside my window, and ever so quietly I heard the slightest jingle of the bells from within that box on my wall. I rushed to see Trixie, but nothing, the box only hung there silently. I went back to my room and once again, a jingle of the bells, louder this time. I locked my bedroom door; I’ve seen a lot of horror movies and I was not about to see what was going to happen. Periodically the bells would jingle, progressively getting louder until I heard a slight creak of hinges that seemed to need an oiling. I regret my next actions very much, when I opened my door and saw the box, with its doors wide open. Inside was the weirdest thing ever, a little stuffed figure of myself dressed as a clown, big bells hung from the roof of the box, jingling constantly without the rope moving once. Right behind the puppet of myself, a small replica of Trixie, facing not towards the puppet of myself, but me. It looked at me. The puppets danced in jagged motions, with no strings attached whatsoever. That’s when I saw the writing on the inside of the box, written in a red liquid that couldn’t have been anything but blood. “How is Trixie?” </p><p>[JON:]<br/>Statement ends… this one has little to no evidence if I’m being honest. I got Basira to look into the shop, and no shop named “Thrifts and Gifts” has ever existed in the Dartford area. It is interesting that he mentioned Nikola, perhaps she played some sick game of make-believe in the years leading up to The Unknowing… maybe it was another stranger who took the same name? I’m not sure… we sent an email to one Todd Richardson for an attempt at a follow-up statement, he has yet to respond. Another appearance of a Leitner isn’t new at this point, but it is concerning. With the context of the book being in Swedish we can discern that the title “Ny Hud” means “New Skin” in a quick and rough translation. Breekon and Hope made a cameo in this statement too, that’s… cool, I guess. I don’t know what they do these days but I swear I saw Breekon hanging from a windowsill once. Regardless of that this statement seems to have come to a begrudging halt… I should start getting used to this. Recording ends.</p><p>[TAPE RECORDER CLICKS]</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>